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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Chapfc.t:.. Copyright No... 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



COPYRIGHT 1897 
IITA CIPRICO BLACK 



SKETCHES 



PROSE AND VERSE 



ANITA CIPRICO BLACK 



i! f! ^ 



SAN FRANCISCO 
1897 



^1^ 



%^^ 






TO MY MOTHER, 

whiose dear memorL) lias made all tP[ings possible, 
tl^is book is fondly dedicated. 

tLAmor vincit omnia. 

A. C. B. 



CONTENTS 

VBRSB 

Title I 

My Treasures 5 

The Old Year Dead at Thy Feet 6 

The Widow's Mite 8 

My Baby lo 

An Ideal 13 

The Tryst 14 

Queries 16 

prose: 

How He Conquered Fate 17 

Who Was the Christian? 22 

The Untold Story of an Unsold Portrait 29 

Lupe: A Tale of the Mission Dolores 33 



Treasare^ 



/fp LUSTERS of sea-born treasures, lucid and clear of mote, 
^^Set in grasp of golden rims to clasp some fairy throat, 

Jewels gleaming with lustre-light, I fain to you had 

brought, 
But I searched in vain, and so I bring only gems of 

thought, — 
Only treasures of heart and mind, gleaming with light, 'tis 

true; 
And yet, perchance, you'd rather wear the gems I sought 

for you. 
There was a Roman mother, when Rome in riches rolled. 
And wealth outpoured its treasures in splendor uncon- 
trolled, 
Who folded to her heart her sons, and said in queenly tone, 
"These are my only treasures, these the gems I own ; 
These are my only treasures," then smiled and went her 

way. 
Rome owned no purer gem than this mother's heart that 

dav. 



Tlhe Old ij ear Bead at Thy Peetc 



1R 



I. 

ING, ring up the curtain, call on the play, 
Sing for the birth of the New Year to-day. 
On with the music, and on with the dance, 
Cast no sad or regretful glance. 
At the year now dead at thy feet ! 

11. 

On, on with the dance, let music reign chief; 
The sojourn of joy at longest is brief. 
While the laugh and the song arise on the ear, 
Pause not to shed a wistful tear 
For the year now dead at thy feet. 

III. 
Would'st sing of the deeds of the year now gone, 
Or chant the praise of the one to come? 
Would'st linger and gaze on the vision past. 
And gazing thus a blessing cast 
On the year now dead at thy feet? 
6 



IV. 
Would'st weep once again on the old year's breast, 
Ere it gently sinks to its final rest? 
Would'st catch the voice from the echoless shore 
That whispers to thee, "Thy task is o'er," 
Like the year now dead at thy feet? 

V. 
If so, let each day of the year to come 
Bear the noble record of work well done. 
Let the golden dip of an Angel's pen 
In living letters write of thee, then. 
And the old vear dead at thv feet. 



I. 

C| J NTO a temple holy 
^^ ('Tis thus the story reads) 
There came a woman, lowly, 

Shrouded in widow's weeds. 
Grief's shadow rested on her face, 

Its pain was in her heart; 
But she was born of noble race: 
Pain could not fear impart. 

II. 
She seem'd footsore and weary, 

And sadly went her way. 
Seeking a corner dreary, 

Where, kneeling, she might pray. 
"I would that I could worthy prove. 

Dear Lord," she meekly said; 
"But I can give thee naught but love. 
All other gifts have fled." 



III. 

"No earthly goods do I possess 

But this, the widow's mite. 
May it, with my heart's wiUingness, 

Prove worthy in thy sight." 
She rose at last from bended knee. 

Her prayer was heard above; 
And all the world doth now agree 

The "widow's mite" was "love." 



I. 

/?N NLY a pair of bright blue eyes, brimming with childish 
W glee, 

Float in the heaven of mem'ry's realm, and smile with 

love on me. 
Only a pair of tiny arms clasp my neck in warm embrace, 
And only a tiny velvet cheek is press'd 'gainst mother's 

face. 
Only my boy; — yet all the world, with its wealth of jewels 

rare, 
Can boast no gem whose lustre bright may with my babe 
compare. 

My precious one, — my baby! 

II. 

Press close to thy mother's breast, my babe; drink deep 

at the fount of life. 
Thy mother's sheltering arms enfold; her presence guards 

from strife. 
Thy mother's arms are strong, my boy, her love for thee 

so deep, 



That now and ever o'er thy hfe she shall her vigils keep. 
Sleep well, my babe; the arm that holds is strengthened 

from above. 
Oh, God! I pray thee, watch with me, and guard with 

tender love 

My precious one, — my baby! 

III. 

Oh! years that now come crowding on, what would ye 

bear from me? 
Not him, — my boy that was and is and ever more shall be? 
Do ye not see how fond they cling, — these arms around 

my neck? 
Oh! win them not away from me; do not their fondness 

check. 
My boy is gone, you tell me. But no; it is not so! 
The hand that stayed each falling tear was baby's hand I 

know! 

My precious one, — my baby! 

IV. 

Oh, baby mine! they call these dreams that thrill thy 
mother's heart: 

Dreams, they say, that meni'ry weaves, while tears un- 
bidden start. 



Only dreams, — but mother knows, though all the world 

may smile, 
Thy manhood's but a guise thou'st won to wear on earth 

awhile, 
Only a cloak around thee drawn to hide the priceless gem, 
The matchless pearl, forever set in her life's diadem: 
My precious one, — my baby! 

V. 
E'en though the paths of life be rough, and footsteps 

sometimes stray, 
'Tis mother's hand, through God's own love, will guide 

thee back alway. 
'Tis mother's hand from spirit-realm, when final night 

draws nigh. 
Shall calm the spirit's troubled breath and close the 

wearied eye. 
'Tis mother's arm shall clasp her boy, his spirit freed from 

sin, 
Ope wide the gates of Heaven's home and safely bear 

within, — 

Her precious one, — her baby! 



^ 



A^ DdeaL 
^^ 

E is my king, who holds me queen, 

Be his eyes brown or blue; 
And life would be an endless dream 

If only his heart were true. 
What would I care for jewels rare, 

For beauty, or form divine, 
If only the heart my heart would wear 

Held no other heart but mine! 
For true love loves with tenderness, 
And true love guards with care; 

And true love knows no meagerness, 

The true love I would share. 
So keep your riches, ye who will 
Worship at Mammon's shrine; 
'Tis only love my heart can fill. 
Dear Love, my heart is thine. 



Tb@ Trymt 



I. 

Q\ MAIDEN sat 'neath a willow tree, 
f*'^ Laughing and bending the boughs in glee, 
Now pulling the leaves off, one by one, 
Then glancing afar at the setting sun; 
Whilst the steady tap of her tiny feet 
Did the tale of impatient love repeat; 
And even the sunbeams tenderly fell 
On the little maiden who loved so well. 

11. 

She sat there long, and the last sunbeam 
Faded away like a golden dream; 
Yet, though the shadows grew long apace. 
The trusting maiden kept her place. 
"He said he would come," she softly said. 
And sadly drooped her pretty head ; 
While the ling'ring beams more tenderly fell 
On the little maiden who loved so well. 
14 



III. 

But soft! a whistle, prolonged and shrill, 
Awakes the echoes over the hill. 
'He comes at last, — my sailor boy," 
And down the maiden leaps in joy. 
Swiftly as dart the rays of light 
So bounded the maiden out of sight; 
And only the man in the moon could tell 
Who 'twas the maiden had loved so well. 



3 



F death doth not end Hfe, 
Why this strife? 

If sorrow ceases here, 
Why a tear? 

If we have prayer, 
And God is there, 

Why despair? 

Do we not know, 
W^iere e'er we go, 
God win His mercy show? 

Then wherefore grieve, 
If we beHeve? 
Why not retrieve 
The errors past? 
There's Home at last! 

i6 



^T WAS all a foregone conclusion, so what was the use of 
■^ bandying words or pretending to give him a trial? He 
stood in the midst of his slanderers without one shadow of a 
chance. His friends had felt compelled to let him bear his 
trouble alone. Self-preservation is the first law of Nature : one 
must save one's self, you know. And then it is not every one 
accused of crime who is brave enough to bear the brunt for 
honor's sake, without telling" all he knows, and so it was the 
oft-repeated story, "forsaken in the hour of need," and, once 
again, friendship proved itself a myth after all. 

His foes gloated in triumph over the success of their low 
cunning and legal power; for "legal wheels" never grind so 
completely as when smeared with the oil of revenge. It was an 
old quarrel that had to be adjusted, — the question of mcmn 
cf tttum: mine and thine, my rights and thy rights, my sins and 
thy sins, equivalent, 'tis true, but not equal, insomuch as thy 
sins were concealed, mine revealed, thine the power to con- 
demn, mine the fate to bear the punishment. The old judge, 
dead these many years, had been too just in a former decision 
to suit the purpose of the party now in power. And now, at 
last, the opportunity had come in which to obtain the suprem- 

17 



acy; the opportunity to teach him and his a lesson; the oppor- 
tunity to crush hearts and lives, as children crush within theii 
hands the fragile shells gathered from the sea-washed shore. 

The mandate went forth, and, for fear the jurors might not 
have learned thoroughly which way the "trade" winds blew, 
they were covertly apprised by the Court that it was the 
Court's inward conviction that this man was the leader and 
should be convicted. Armed with this assurance, the jury 
convicted. Perhaps they were only too glad for the chance 
to do so. Perhaps, also, they had already been "convinced" 
of his guilt; there are so many strong persuaders in this world, 
and so many strong ways of producing impressions and of 
gaining results. Possession is truly nine points of the law; 
and what difference does it make in your physical or social 
status, if you be innocent or guilty of crime, as long as the 
law convicts you? 'Tis the pound of flesh demanded by the 
bond: the Court awards it, and the law allows it; and only 
He, the all-seeing One, from whom no secrets are hidden, 
knows how often justice is wilfully perverted; how often the 
wrong man is punished. 

There are wrongs so cruelly unjust in their conception 
and effect, that God permits them to be endured by the victim, 
as man permits the metals to pass through fire — for purifica- 
tion — knowing the severity of the test will carry away all im- 
purities, and that the pure gold will remain in evidence. The 
English sailor sings loud and lustily, "we are but slaves, we 
must submit," and learns early in life the value of graceful 
submission. But the American "native son" strikes root in 
i8 



different soil. Freedom is his heritage; oppression is unbear- 
able, and he never learns submission until it is forced upon 
him by the power of might and the agony of despair. 

" Stone walls do not a prison make 
Nor iron bars a cell." 
Yet strongest hearts with anguish break 
When doom'd therein to dwell. 

In the solitude of his lonely cell, with only the memories 
of a. dearly loved past and the crushing weight of an ever- 
present sorrow to keep him company, one sad, forsaken heart 
learned the lesson of submission — learned to say, 'Thy will be 
done." What to him was the knowledge of his innocence? 
Few in all that little world who had shared his joys and pleas- 
ures believed in his truth, cared enough to stand by him, or 
to search for the real culprits and promoters of this scandal. 

Convicted, he stood in the eyes of an ever-ready community, 
bearing the badge of a felon on his breast, and the sting of 
injustice in his heart. Not even death could free him from this 
sorrow, — not even death could restore to him his birthright, — 
not even death could make wrong right. 

Then should he die? It were easier to cease this struggle 
than to endure this living death — this life of torture. And 
were there not those who longed for freedom? Why not give 
it to them? They had betrayed astonishment at his not seek- 
ing death, before he had brought disgrace upon them. Should 
he then give them their desire? 

Groping in the darkness of despair, reaching far out into 
the infinite, his mental vision gradually became familiar with 

19 



the gloom that surrounded him; and from the depths of an 
all-crushing bitterness, this weary soul learned to discern the 
ray of "kindly light" — to trace the shadowy film that pene- 
trated the clouds, and to catch the sunshine as it filtered 
through. 

Around him, at all times, he saw living witnesses of man's 
mistakes, — man's sufferings, — man's despair, — man's inhu- 
manity to man, — man's longing after something better. The 
longing that lingers in every human heart, like the fibres of an 
old tree, threading through the soil, long after root and tree 
have been torn away and cast aside. 'Tis the never-ceasing 
cry, "what might have been," if you and I had only possessed 
the judgment, the desire, the willing hand, — perhaps, too, the 
chance. 

Life was sad, but life was real, and from this chapter of his 
life, written in his heart's blood, was he learning the lesson that 
should never be forgotten while memory was his, — the lesson 
that experience teaches — for only he, who has known sufifer- 
ing, can feel the suffering others endure. He beheld men 
whose destinies were sadder, more cruel even, than his own; 
their sorrows appealed to him, and his heart, with all its pent- 
up sympathy, went out to them. There was work for him to 
do — not such as he had chosen, but such as had been chosen 
for him. With all his heart, with all his soul, did he enter 
upon his duties. No act so menial, but it was his pleasure 
to perform it, — if by that act he cheered some tired comrade, — 
if by that act he made some friendless spirit the least bit more 
contented, the least bit happier. Time had no measure now; 



its irksomeness was gone, its crushing weight had vanished. 
Never again could the pain of enforced soUtude be his; never 
again could the sting of injustice rankle in his heart, for he 
had learned the limit of man's power; had learned man's true 
mission: his duty to his fellow-man. 

And from the moment the golden truth of this golden rule 
flourished in his life's daily actions, and became the main- 
spring of his every thought, word and deed, from that moment 
the burden of his life was lifted; from that moment he had 
regained his birthright; from that moment he had conquered 
fate. 



Wib)® Was tfe)© Orlstmol' 



1> 



E WAS only a Chinese working-boy, small in stature, 
Y lithe in figure, but possessed of untiring strength and 
zeal. He had come to that city in search of employment, and, 

when Madam Z , proprietress of the Quondam Hotel, 

had sought a Chinese servant (one capable of performing 
housework of all kinds), he had applied for and secured the 
position. 

His duties had been defined for him, and, though they were 
complicated and various, but a few days had been required to 

prove to Madam Z and the inmates of the hotel that Ah 

Chim, as he was called, thoroughly understood his work, and 
was in every way equal to the situation. Among the many 
roomers residing at the Quondam were young women, en- 
gaged in different occupations. Dressmakers, hairdressers, 
milliners, factory girls, breadwinners in many of the numerous 
avenues of industry, passed each other on the stairs, as day by 
day they went out, or returned from work. Among all who 
thronged the house, but one led an idle life ; and she, the silent 
occupant of the first hall room on the second floor, stayed 
within her four walls, and waited the friends who never came. 



Often the thoughtless, laughing girls, running up the long 
flights of stairs, would pause for an instant as the dull echoes 
of prolonged coughing, accompanied by deep-drawn sighs, 
filled the silent halls, and the impulse would almost bear some 
troubled listener toward the door from which the sounds issued. 
But the cruel selfishness of unfeeling social customs, which 
require women to abide by the cold formalities of introduc- 
tions and social etiquette, would act as a repelling force; and 
the desire to show some human kindness to a suffering human 
being would be forgotten, or at least unheeded, and the girls 
would hurry away, intent on their own pursuits. Sometimes 
Madam, in collecting her rents, would linger on the threshold 
of the sick room and make inquiries. Had Miss Carridon 
received any news yet, and did she know when her friends 
were coming? Always the young girl made the same answer, 
"I expect my friends next week." But the weeks slipped by; 
no friends came. Only, every Saturday afternoon, a letter 
was brought to the girl, who signed her name, "Carrie Car- 
ridon," on the slip of paper handed for her signature. In the 
evening Madam made her visit to the girl's room, and the con- 
tents of the letter were brought forth. Madam would give her 
receipt for the rent, and the. occupant of the room would be 
left unmolested until another week had passed by, when the 
same formalities would be repeated. All this time the sorrow- 
ing girl had made but one friend. Only one, who lived within 
that house, and daily passed in and out, ever gave one kindly 
thought to the pale, sickly girl, who wept in solitude and 
longed for human sympathy. 

23 



In his capacity of servant, Ah Chim, the Chinese boy, was 
obhged to sweep the chfferent rooms, halls and stairs, and had 
often refrained from "doing" Miss "Callie's" room because the 
young girl's fits of coughing were only heightened by the dust 
that was occasioned when sweeping was attempted. 

Often, when Madam had gone out, Ah Chim would open 
the best room in the house and earnestly entreat "Miss Callie" 
to stay there and wait until he had swept and arranged her 
room. This she would do willingly, and then the kind- 
hearted boy would give her room a thorough cleaning, and 
when she returned to it the cleanliness and cheerfulness of that 
room would be the only bright spot in her life that day. 

Little by little Ah Chim learned the storv of "Miss Callie's" 
life. 

In his simple way, he gathered the facts that "Miss Callie's" 
life had been one of sad mistakes. In a fitful moment she had 
listened to the tempter's voice — had left her home far away in 
an Eastern State, and had followed a reckless life. For a few 
months it had been all gayety and seeming joyousness, 
laughter, song and mirth. But always in the solitude of her 
own heart was an ever-present pain, an ever-present scorn for 
herself and the life she led, and a longing for the something 
better that had once been hers. 

Memories of early lessons returned to her and haunted her 
daily life. Unknown to her companions, the voice of con- 
science asserted itself once more within her heart, until at last, 
impelled by a spirit stronger than herself, she fied from the 
haunts of destruction, and, as a stranger in a strange city, she 



sought to earn her daily bread by earnest, honest toil. Never 
of a robust nature, the struggle had proven most severe, and 
suddenly, like a thief in the night, the hand of disease had fallen 
upon her. Consumption had held her in his iron grasp and 
marked her for his own. The rapid ravages of the dreaded 
malady had betrayed her whereabouts to her former com- 
panions, who, respecting her wish to lead a worthy life, now 
sent her aid anonymously. 

Too ill to question from whom this assistance came, the 
girl had gratefully accepted the gift, with the conditions im- 
posed by the letter accompanying it. 

"You are ill. Consult a noted physician. Once well again, you 
can some day return all to one who was once 

"Your Mother's Friend." 

She thought she was improving, but all the time her 
strength was failing fast, and the only one in all the world who 
seemed to care or to have one kind word for her was the 
Chinaman, Ah Chim. 

Sometimes, when he would hear her cough, he would run to 
her bedside with a glass of water and speak to her consolingly. 
Sometimes, when the poor girl would weep and bemoan her 
sad fate, he would cheer her up : 

"Don't cly. Miss Callie." he would say, you get better 
bime-by." 

"Maybe, Ah Chim," she would answer, "but oh, I have 
been so sinful, I fear there is no hope for me." 

25 



"Oh, yes, Miss Callie — God, He know you soUy. He for- 
gib you." 

There came a day when the poor girl's Hmbs refused to 

bear her from her bed. Ah Chim told Madam Z . Even 

some of the girls were told by liim. "Poor Miss Callie — she 
awful sick. I flaid she die. Why you no see her?" were some 
of the remarks he made while performing his duties, hoping 
in this way to enlist their sympathies for the sad girl who 
had harmed no one but herself, and who was paying, with her 
life, the penalty of her mistakes. Yes, he had spoken to 

Madam Z , and Madam Z had consulted the doctor, 

and the doctor had spoken to a minister, and the minister had 
"advised" with some of the righteous women of his flock. 

And one day the minister had called and prayed for a short 
time by her bedside, and had promised to call again, and to 
send some of the good women who belonged to his congrega- 
tion. But none ever came, for the minister had repeated to 
them all the sad history that had been confided to him. And 
these good women, being self-righteous and sinless, were able 
to throw the allegorical stone, and they thrczv it. Meanwhile, 
the cruel power of death fastened itself upon the poor girl. 
Unable to wait upon herself, or to lift her head, unaided, from 
the pillow, she lay uncared for, alone, but for the faithful 
attendant, who made time to wander in just when the medicine 
was to be taken, — when the parched lips so longed for the cool- 
ing draught, when the throbbing head ached for the pillow to 
be turned, or when the weary body, tired of the bed, longed to 
be lifted to the lounge that had been placed to catch the last 
26 



rays of the setting sun. And even when the quiet tears 
trickled down the thin, hollow cheeks, Ah Chim's hand was 
ready to wipe them away, and his consoling voice would fall 
upon her ear, "Don't cly. Miss Callie; God forgib you. He 
know you solly." One day Ah Chim ventured to speak a 
thought that filled his mind night and day. It seemed to him 
as if there must be some relations, some friends, who should 
know the girl's sad condition; and he asked "Miss Callie" to 
tell him where they were, that he might try to send some word 
to them. Weeping bitterly, the girl told him that there was 
no one in all the world who really cared for her, no one whom 
she could ever again call friend. At a tender age she had lost 
her mother, the idol of her heart, the only being who had ever 
counseled her aright and tried to shield her from harm, the 
only being who had ever really loved her. "And oh, Ah Chim," 
sobbed the poor girl, "she's dead, and, though I have longed so 
for her, I am glad she died before I brought her sorrow." 
And again the Chinaman cheered her with the words, "Don't 
cly. Miss Callie; you solly. God forgib you. He not mad 
now. He know you soll^^" 

One evening, at dusk, the doctor was hastily summoned. 
The invalid had been propped up with the many pillows that 
Ah Chim had taken from vacant rooms. Madam had been 
hurriedly called, for Ah Chim had been alarmed at the blood 
that oozed so freely, when he hastened to wipe the poor girl's 
lips; while she gasped for breath, and struggled to conquer the 
hacking cough that shook her slender frame. 



The doctor had ordered a quieting draught. Madam had 
said "good-night," and only Ah Chim had hngered to admis- 
ister the medicine as directed, or, perchance, when death 
should call, to close the wearied eye. 

Exhausted by the struggle to regain her gasping breath, 
the sad-hearted penitent had settled back within the pillows 
that clustered around her drooping head, nestling as tranquilly 
there as nestles a babe upon its mother's breast. 

Gradually the room was flooded with light; the last beams 
of the setting sun rested tenderly upon the lowly couch and 
shed a golden halo around the prostrate form. 

Suddenly the slender figure raised itself, and leaned far for- 
ward; the eager eyes glanced searchingly around. A look of 
happy recognition flashed upon the pale face, the outstretched 
arms seemed almost to enfold some proffered prize, and with 
the joyous cry of "mother! mother!" the tired, yearning spirit 
left its tenement of clay and returned to its Creator. 

********* 

And women wept when in groups next day 
They gathered around that form to pray ; 
But the God, who reads each human heart, 
Knew which had achieved the noblest part. 



28 



Tlhe Ulntofld^tory off an Ulnsolld Ir ortraato 

^'HTWAS night in Paris. The capital of the world was ablaze 
vL' with light. Crowds of merry pleasure-seekers thronged 
her thoroughfares, her avenues, her boulevards, jostled each 
other as they rushed along, some with laughter, some with 
song and others with rippling jest, all intent on one pursuit — 
the pursuit of pleasure. 

For Paris was in a joyous mood — and who but fools would 
sackcloth wear, when mirth and music fill the air? Gala day 
in Paris! In the city that always puts on her brightest smiles 
to greet her well-loved people. But what means this extra 
cheer, this rapturous, bounding pulse, this "spring-tide" of 
humanity? Watch the crowd and learn — follow in their foot- 
steps — enter where they lead, — a salon, long and wide, its 
walls hung with pictures of all sizes, of all descriptions, of all 
classes. The crowds pause not on the threshold, but enter 
here. Truly Paris makes a merry time when she would 
honor genius — heroes, she calls them, these knights of 
brush and palette, co-equal, she thinks, with her ancient 
knights of the garter. Yet, while she laughs, she brooks 
no insult, and, with marked earnestness, does she resent 
each advance of ignorant, gilded insolence. At last, a pause. 
A portrait greets the eye, — a woman's face, — 'tis worthy con- 
templation. The voices of the noisy crowd are muffled, 
many groups of three and four gather closer together, 
29 



and whisper in low tones, while ever and anon the clamoring 
of busy tongues rises to an angry menace, and cries of "La 
dame fachee," "La Borgia," are heard on every side. 

A master hand had placed upon the canvas there the linea- 
ments of a human face. With matchless skill and power every 
feature had grown and beamed with active light. The eyes so 
clear, so blue, looked out in perfect shape and hue, and almost 
greeted one with recognition. And yet, that very glance 
seemed full of hidden terror — as if a nameless dread had 
shunned the light and held itself in shadow. The lips did 
almost ope to speak — almost breathing mercy. Yet ere that 
thought became a prayer, disdain had conquered, and cruel 
scorn had set its impress there. 

Fascinated, the crowds gazed on, and gazing, shuddered, 
and shuddering, wondered why they stayed to gaze. What was 
there in this human face that repelled even curiosity? Why 
had Paris been permitted to gaze unmolested on the unsold 
portrait of "Madame, la nouvelle riche?" Paris knew not 
the caprice of wealth, perhaps, then shrugged its shoulders, 
glanced again, shivered and passed on. While, anon, the 
lights grew dim, the streets were gradually deserted, the chill 
air of morn crept in, and, tired at last, Paris slept. 

Many months before this time, Madame had sought the 
artist's studio. "Paint for me my portrait. Spare not your 
time nor talent, and Fll spare not my money." 

Day by day the lady came and sat for her portrait. The 
artist labored well. Each day some change was made. Per- 
fection was aimed at, and perfection seemed attained. 

30 



But one day, unknown to artist or to lady, there entered 
mysterious, unseen visitors. Quietly by the side of the lady 
they took their place, and each day, at their bidding, visions of 
a most unwelcome past loomed up vividly before her sight. 
Figures flitted in and out the caverns of her brain, stirring 
with ruthless hand the pages of her life's would-be-forgotten 
history. Again she enacted those scenes of her childhood's 
days. Again she lived with those friends of her mother's 
youth, enjoying their bounty, living upon the fruits of their 
labor, and eating her portion of their daily bread. 

Oh, those detested memories of a cruel poverty, of necessi- 
ties so great that death must have come to her, but for those 
friends who, sharing home, food, clothing, all, had kept alive 
her family. Why could she not forget them? Why could she 
not shut them out noii\ as she had done all these past years? 
Why did they come nozi' to haunt licr with their reproachful 
glances? 

Whose face was that? Why did those eyes glare so, and 
burn down deep into her very soul? Was it, then, true? His 
sudden death— was it her hand that had dealt the blow? His 
letter had seemed an intrusion. Perhaps had it been after the 
ball she had not answered it so angrily, but one cannot attend 
to everything at once; and it was an intrusion, just then of all 
times— and yet he had bought the cradle in which her baby 
head had rested, and his letter had said: "My child, sickness 
has entered the home that was once thine. Death stares me in 
the face. God has been good to thee. Forget not, when I am 
gone, the dear ones who have shared with thee," and was 
signed, "With love, thv foster father." 



And then his death. Yes, she had wept at that. Would 
she could forget it all! 

The gaze of those reproachful eyes chilled her to the heart, 
but she would defy them. What were the terrors of a dead 
past to the joys of a living present? With her gold would she 
build the barrier that should shut out and perhaps destroy 
those memories, those people, all. None should enter the 
magic circle of her gilded presence, and none should dream of 
her lowly origin. Her money should win for her distinction. 
These memories, these people, should be crushed, destroyed, 
annihilated. What zvorth were untold wealth if it brought not 
untold powerf These strong emotions and many more of a 
like nature flitted through her brain and heart. But still the 
artist labored on, and, glancing often at that face, he caught, 
at times, the shadows of those clamorous spirits. While on 
.the canvas grew, faithful to life, the picture of a woman whose 
face revealed the workings of an ungrateful heart. A face 
whose eyes shunned the light of truth, whose lips dared not 
utter the words of truth, and on whose brow, Medusa-like, 
there writhed the symbol of Cain. It needed no telescopic 
vision to detect its presence there. The lady glanced, and as 
within a mirror she saw the horror of it all. She saw herself 
revealed to the world for what she was at heart — a murderess. 
She refused to receive the picture, and demanded its destruc- 
tion. The artist failed to comply with her request, and placed 
it in the famous salon, where it could be seen by every eye in 
Paris. One night the picture was missed from its pedestal. 
It had been purloined and destroyed, and the world had lost 
forever what had proven a living truth and an artist's master- 
piece. 32 



ILaMpe" Jri TaDe off the i^DssIomi Ooloreso 

^TTHEY were all alike, those quaint, squatty adobe houses; 
vL' so similar without and within that unless you had counted 
the number of your own you would have done as Lupe had 
often done in her early childhood — entered the wrong one in 
search of her "dear Madrona." 

Perhaps it was true, the claim so often made by her friends, 
that Lupe's house was the daintiest and prettiest of any of 
them; certainly it was the most attractive. For the passion- 
vine twined in and out the latticed porch in endless windings, 
the sweet jasmine shed its fragrance unsparingly, the climbing 
roses were always in bloom, and then, did not Lupe live there? 

Guadalupe was her baptismal name, but from her baby- 
hood the name of Lupe had been given to her, and in after 
years it clung to her as pet names always cling. 

You could never find the little house to-day, were you to 
search for it ever so earnestly; nor could you trace even its 
location, for this is a story of long ago. The house and its 
inhabitants have long since vanished, and all that now remains 
in evidence of the old Mission Dolores are the church and 
graveyard — both gone to decay, and doomed, ere long, to total 
destruction. 

Lupe's parents had been among the first to join the "holy 
fathers" in their efforts to establish a mission; thev had proven 

33 



themselves most faithful and devout, and in the very shadow 
of their church had they built their little home. Around and 
about it had been placed all the comforts at their command; 
and when, ten years after their advent at the Mission, God 
had sent to them a daughter, their little Lupe, their measure 
of happiness had seemed complete, and morning, noon and 
night they had rendered grateful thanks for this, their "earthly 
paradise." The glorious noon-day of life was upon them; the 
zenith of domestic happiness had been reached ; the glamour of 
its sunshine flooded their hearts, and, blinded by the intensity 
of its glare, they saw not the clouds that slowly obscured their 
sun, saw not the shadows that crept around them, as shadows 
ever creep in the pathway of light, following its progress from 
noon till night. The Mission Dolores was now in its glory. 
The foothills far and near were being cultivated; fruits and 
vegetables of all kinds were growing in abundance; ranches 
had been established; domestic industries flourished; the 
people were contented; the venerable padres told their beads 
and tended their flock with happy hearts, unconscious of the 
storm gathering around them, threatening the downfall of their 
little settlement and the destruction of all this domestic felicity. 
Ships had been knowm to enter San Francisco harbor, bring- 
ing scores of fortune-hunters — "Americanos," the people called 
them; — men eager to gain legal possession of this golden land; 
this land overflowing with riches; this "uncivilized" com- 
munity, as it were, where every other man was a native — an 
Indian — possessing no education, only a grateful heart, willing 
to worship God and keep his commandments. Self-aggran- 
34 



dizenient is the besetting sin of modern civilization. "Civi- 
lized" man believes in the acquisition of property and the 
accumulation of wealth, and, though he may swear to the 
contrary, prove for yourself where his heart is. Gild your 
donkey and witness his preferment; take ofif your hat to him, 
for he is admitted where his brother, appearing in his natural 
accoutrements, is barred out. 

Suddenly, like a thunder-bolt, the clouds of trouble burst 
upon this little community. Land disputes became every-day 
strifes, and none the less conclusive became the fact that all 
were arbitrarily settled by "American arbitration." 

"You may keep your land, my friend, if the law is on your 
side; we'll go to law and settle this dispute." So you go to 
law, and the court decides that the old Spanish grant, under 
which your fathers held possession, is not worth the paper on 
which it is written, and the blow is struck at your heart, which 
is your home, and you never recover. Lupe's father sought 
to save his home. Possessed of more than ordinary ability, 
and a good education in his native language, he sought to 
counteract American arbitration by Spanish legality. He was 
so far successful that he saved his home, but incurred the 
enmity of several squatters, who swore revenge on the intelli- 
gent Mexicano. 

Now began a constant struggle between the settlers and 
these wary adventurers, who, bent on acquiring large tracts of 
land, cared not who was wronged by their deeds, providing 
the "law" protected them and the world at large never found 
out JKsf how they acquired their propertv. Manv a "light" 

35 



went out at this time. An accidental puff of the wind, you 
know, but one forgot to tell how the fall of a trigger had 
exhausted the atmosphere, although the deep hole near the 
poor man's heart showed how truly "nature abhors a vacuum." 

One day Lupe's father went from his home to return no 
more alive, and the destroyer of that life and that home escaped 
for many years, until time was ripe for detection. 

Lupe was but six years old when her parents were taken 
from her, almost too young to remember just how they 
looked and talked, but not too young to retain memories of 
that mother's tenderness. 

Of the loving arms that had folded her so closely to her 
heart, of the plaintive lullaby sung to her each night, even 
when friends had said, "the child is old enough to sing herself 
to sleep; why spoil her with such petting?" Of the evening 
piayer she had learned to lisp to the dear Madonna; while 
sleep stole over her weary eyelids, and the dear Madonna 
seemed to stoop down and kiss her in her dreams. Ah, it had 
seemed a cruel fate to send to one so young — for when those 
men (who had found her father lying near the churchyard 
gate, bleeding from a fatal stab made in his side by an 
unknown hand) had placed him on a litter and carried him to 
his home, his wife, the "little mother," had sprung forward 
with the cry of a stricken deer, only to fall senseless at the feet 
of him whose sudden death had broken her heart. 

In vain the anxious "medico" had tried to resuscitate her, 
and the untiring "padre" had prayed for a respite, however 
brief, the stroke had been too keen; the two hearts that had 

36 



been so happy in their love had ceased to beat, and ere the 
week' had passed one grave had become their final resting 
place, and little Lupe was left alone, ^'anished now were all 
of childhood's dreams, those joyous dreams that only come to 
happy childish hearts: 

When mother is the fairy queen, 

And sorrow is unknown ; 
For baby lives in fairy-land, 

And all the world doth own. 

Old Madrona had been her mother's nurse, and often dur- 
ing the first years of the child's sorrow would the tender- 
hearted creature hold her in her arms and drone some plaintive 
melody (a shadow of the well-remembered lullaby), hoping to 
cheer the sad-eyed little one who wept so bitterly, and to ease 
the little heart that hungered so for mother. Often, too, she 
talked with the child and kept alive within her mind recollec- 
tions that otherwise had been forgotten. For there was but 
little connected with their daily home life that Madrona had 
failed to store within her memory, and, with gentle care, she 
endeavored to impart it all to Lupe, and to linger lovingly over 
every detail. 

Thus guarded byMadrona's loving care, the child grew 
stronger and happier, loving Madrona dearly, proving it by 
her obedience and affection, but never forgetting the dear 
mother, whose name was ever on her lips, whose image was 
ever in her heart. 

And now time sped away almost too rapidly. The gentle 
sisters at the convent to which Lupe went each day were 

37 



charmed with her tractable, winning- manners, the guileness- 
ness of her heart, the power of apphcation she manifested in all 
her school duties, and above all the tender devotion she 
evinced for the Mater Dolorosa, the Mother of Sorrows. 

A large engraving of the s^me, given to her by the sisters, 
in token of their approbation and affection, hung within her 
little room beside her bed. Often on her knees did Lupe gaze 
reverently upon the beautiful face that seemed to look down 
upon her with her mother's loving glance and to whisper in her 
listening ear, "Fear not, my child, thy mother watches over 
thee." It was all another dream, perhaps, but it was a dream 
that brought peace and made Lupe grow up into a happy 
maiden; for the sunshine of peace was in her heart, and the 
merry laughter that rippled from her lips was music to the ears 
that listened, for it told of innocent youth rejoicing in health and 
reveling in the sunlight of peace. One day during the last 
week of the solemn season of Lent, at the time when the sisters 
were observing- the "Retreat," as it is called in the convent, 
when the girls were wandering leisurely in and out of the 
rooms, through the wide halls and up and down the long stair- 
ways, Lupe heard the gate bell ring loud and clear. 

No one else seemed to hear the bell-, for no one answered 
the summons. Again it rang, and this time, scarcely heeding 
the unaccustomed action, the girl stepped down the walk and 
turned the key in the gate, at the same time admitting a young 
man, who stood with hat in hand ready to enter. Blushingly, 
the girl told him the sisters were on "retreat," asking his name 
and desiring him to call another day when the sisters would be 

38 



at leisure. Handing her a card, with the request that she 
would convey the same to the sisters, the young man modestly 
retired, but not before the girls, who had hurriedly rushed, 
with one impulse, after Lupe, had noted every feature of his 
face, discerned every rapid glance of his eye, and studied every 
movement of his stately figure. 

"Oh, but isn't he handsome?" "What's his name?" "Is 
he coming again?" "Did you see him look at Lupe?" And a 
score of other eager expressions of girlish inquisitiveness fol- 
lowed each other in quick succession; while the merry girls 
crowded around Lupe, jostling each other in their futile efforts 
to gain a glimpse of the card, which Lupe held tightly within 
her fingers, screening from their view the side that held the 
written name, — the name she longed to know, but which she 
scorned to read without permission from those to whom it 
belonged, and toward whom her heart ever turned in reverent 
obedience. 

Within her girdle she deftly placed the card, and, after 
relocking the gate (the girls forming in groups of twos and 
threes), the walking and talking was quietly resumed, for each 
one knew her duty, and, though a few rebellious spirits would 
have gladly entered into some mischievous fun, the majority 
of the girls were filled with quiet gravity, realizing the obliga- 
tions imposed upon all by the solemnity of the season, being 
anxious to fulfill their duty and to please the sisters in all 
things. Therefore little was said about the unusual occur- 
rence, and if Lupe had found any remembrance of that hand- 
some face intruding upon her devotions, it would have sad- 

39 



dened her, and she would have felt compelled to do severe 
penance for the frivolous thought that could take her mind 
away from her holy religion, for Lupe was as devout a Roman 
Catholic as ever knelt at chancel rail, receiving there the sac- 
ramental gift, the eucharistic blessing, with tender adoration 
and holy gratitude. Easter week had nearly passed, when, 
one morning, Lupe was called by Sisters Annunciate and 
Paula into the large reception room. 

The young man had returned; would Lupe come and aid 
the sisters in their conversation, or give to him the desired 
information? 

It had appeared, by referring to the card, that the gentle- 
man was a lawyer named Francis McMahon (the sisters sim- 
plified it by saying Seiior Francis). He had been sent by 
interested parties to make inquiries in regard to the tract of 
land occupied by the sisters. 

The Spanish spoken by the young man was scarcely such 
as is written in books, for he had resided but one year in 
Mexico. He depended more upon the understanding of his 
hearers than upon his own for correct interpretation. Conse- 
quently, the sisters, always timid and retiring in manner, were 
quite at a loss to understand all he wished to explain to them. 
But Lupe, with the quick perception of youth and a sudden 
intuition (that sprung she knew not how or why into her 
brain), grasped the situation in an instant, following him in 
thought, and placing at his disposal each necessary word, thus 
enabling him to tell the sisters all he had come so far to impart. 
The story was a long one. At its completion the sisters 



advised the young man to rettirn to Mexico for more definite 
information. 

"Bring written documents to us. We will place them in 
the hands of our most Reverend Bishop, and he will decide 
what course of action it will be best for us to pursue in the 
case." This w^as the ultimatum delivered by Sister Paula. 
And then the young man was kindly invited to partake of some 
slight refreshment before taking his departure, for the road to 
and from the Mission Dolores was a long, tiresome one in 
those days. Totally unconscious of the joy conferred on 
youth and maid by request thus kindly proffered, the sisters 
led the way across the wide hall into their own din?ng-room. 
This was small, but very clean and cool. Spread out upon the 
table w^as a dainty but simple repast. A glass of purest milk 
sufBced to allay the young man's thirst, a biscuit or so was 
all he needed to satisfy his hunger, and, bidding the sisters and 
Lupe a courteous adios, promising to secure all necessary 
papers and to return a-; soon as possible, he left them. And 
with him went out all the sunlight. Scarcely knowing why, 
Lupe went back to her task with a saddened heart, hearing 
all the time the echo of one voice, noting nothing on the pages 
of her book but one face that looked up at her with eyes that 
ever smiled so lovingly and lips that almost breathed her name, 
-^"craving pardon, if too free he made, with that sweet name." 

Ah, what w^as this? Never before had it been thus in all 
her life — was it then-, wrong? Never had the day dragged so 
slowly. Never had she so longed to seek her little room and 
there, upon her knees, in sweet communion with her dear 



saints, to ask them what it meant, this rapturous pulse, this 
wild, glad beating- of her heart that made her wish to laugh 
and then to weep, and then to pray. Yes, that was what it 
meant — she needed prayer. She would ask the dear 
Madonna. She would tell it all to her, then should she under- 
stand it better, for only the right would linger after her dear 
Madonna knew. 

That night, for the first time in all her young life, Lupe 
faltered at her prayers, missed a bead, forgot an "ave." 
"Sancta Maria, forgive" — more earnestly, more reverently 
would she pray. Gradually a consciousness stole over her 
that not thus had she been before that day — that dear day. 
Would she ever forget it? No, no, never could it be for- 
gotten! Always now, would the remembrance be with her 
and bring kind thoughts of him, — the hope that he was 
well, and that some day she would see him again. Nothing 
more — her hopes reached not beyond; her guileless heart 
fathomed not the deep mystery. She knew not yet that, 
unsought, her love had flown to him whom Fate had made her 
mate. Scarcely two months had passed when Sehor Francis, 
with all the required documents, returned to the convent. 
The sisters were delighted to see him, for the Reverend Bishop 
had not been satisfied with the information he had received, 
and, fearing the contemplation of some great wrong toward 
the sisters by these unscrupulous land-grabbers, he was most 
anxious to hear the worst, that he might act accordingly. 

The sisters were therefore desirous of making no mistakes 
in their report. So once again Lupe was summoned to aid 



them, by acting as interpreter. He had come! Oh, how her 
heart beat! How the thought made her tremble as she walked 
down the long halls leading to the reception room. She 
paused a moment — not thus should she enter the room where 
the dear sisters waited. Oh, happy thought, born of loving 
respect, for just as she opened the door of the reception room 
her glance fell upon the dear Madonna's picture hanging 
there, and the gentle calm settled upon her, permeated her 
heart and soul, as it ever did when she gazed on that dear face. 
Once again she became her own dear self, and the quiet bow of 
recognition with which she greeted all revealed nothing to those 
standing there, — nothing to the calm observer; but the pene- 
trating eye of love caught the fleeting blush, the hurried glance, 
the quick, stifled breath (for Love, young Love, is very wise; it 
seldom makes mistakes); and, understanding all. Love gave 
back the self-same blush, the self-same glance and sigh. Ah. 
what joy it was to breathe that day! Such laughter, such 
merry jest, surely there was contagion in such mirth; for even 
the staid sisters smiled and retired a little to whisper confidences, 
while the two, thus left a moment to themselves, w^ere conscious 
of an extra happiness : 

As if their hearts could not conceal 
The love their eyes had dared reveal. 
Now that the sisters had received all the documents and 
information, they were filled with consternation at the strange 
audacity betrayed by these intriguers, who were thus attempt- 
ing to lay prior claim to the convent grounds and deprive 
them of their possessions. Well, it should all be placed in the 



43 



hands of the Reverend Bishop; they should not permit them- 
selves to worry. In the meantime the convent inmates would 
make a Novena. Seiior Francis must return in ten days, and 
the sisters would then be able to give a definite answer. Bow- 
ing his grateful thanks, the young man finally took his leave, 
but not before ascertaining just where Lupe lived and promis- 
ing himself that the sun should not be more prompt than he in 
his morning salutation. And now began the sweetest of all 
her dreams, — youth's dream of love, — the dream of which the 
poet sings, 

"There 's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream," 
the dream that every heart would fain retain, but which, once 
lost, ne'er comes again'. And Lupe was dreaming it all, with- 
out a shadow of doubt clouding her innocent heart, still hearing 
sometimes in her dreams, "that murmur of the outer Infinite, 
which unweaned babies smile at in their sleep, when wondered 
at for smiling." 

The Reverend Bishop had examined the documents and 
proven their inaccuracy. Legal authorities had been con- 
sulted, legal questions raised and answered, titles searched, 
abstracts filed, old Spanish grants taken down from dusty 
shelves and thoroughly ventilated, each and every claim well 
probed, considered and explained, until at last the conclusion 
was finally reached and proven to the satisfaction of all parties 
concerned that the property questioned was not identical with 
that possessed by the sisters. 

This decision brought to view page upon page of long- 
forgotten historv, and in the strangest manner (onlv that truth 



is ever stranger than fiction) the mystery surrounding the 
tragic death of Lupe's father was at last revealed, and two 
more hearts were broken, two more lives were sacrificed in 
expiation. 

Jeremiah McMahon, the father of Seiior Francis, had left 
his Boston home when his son was but an infant, promising to 
return within three years with bags of gold for wife and child 
Piut the years had multiplied many times three before any 
definite word had been received from him. The letter that 
then came told of his severe illness, and begged his brother, to 
whom the letter was directed, to hasten to Mexico. The letter 
was difTficult to interpret, being in a strange language, written 
by strange hands, but it betrayed anxiety, and enough was 
gleaned from its contents to prepare the family for the letter 
which arrived very soon afterward telling of his sudden death, 
and requesting the immediate presence of some interested party. 
The estate was considered very valuable, and all papers and 
effects of the deceased had been placed under legal supervision 
until Daniel, the brother of deceased, and Francis, his son, 
should arrive in Mexico. After a year spent in litigation, 
decisions had been reached, and all the claims in and about 
Mexico had been settled. Attention had then been directed to 
the land claims in California, and among the first considered 
was the claim to Mission property. The deeds were placed in 
the care of the most learned legal lights and subjected to care- 
ful scrutiny and research. Not realizing the serious error 
thus being made, great publicity was given to transactions and 



45 



statements, which, among wealthy people of to-day, would be 
developed in secrecy, as one develops negatives, — in the dark. 

But wealth in California had not become a power as yet, 
and truth had not yet learned to shun the light. The man 
who stole his brother's reputation was punished just as well 
as he who stole his brother's purse; to cut his brother's heart 
out was as great a crime as to cut ofT that brother's head. The 
people were learning, 'tis true, but traitors had not yet been 
publicly rewarded, and the price for treason and treachery had 
not yet assumed the dignity of a governmental tax. So all the 
truth came to light, and all the Mission told the story. 

Witnesses were found who remembered the excitement 
caused in court that day, when Lupe's father had proven the 
falsity of McMahon's claims and the truth of his own; remem- 
bered the angry words uttered by McMahon when he found 
his claims ignored; remembered the angry menace and mut- 
tered "revenge" that escaped his lips as he left the courtroom. 
But none remembered ever seeing him again, although that 
night, as all now remembered well, that night the poor, dead 
body of Lupe's father was found near the churchyard gate. 

Evidences of a struggle had been visible, and the deeds 
(known to have been in his pocket when he left the courtroom) 
had been missed even at that time, but Lupe had been the sole 
survivor, and no one had ever questioned Lupe's rights until 
now. 

And now the truth had come, and every question, every 
revelation had meant a heart-stab to their dear Lupe — Lupe, 
whose dream of love had been watched by so many loving 
46 



eyes, and for whose future happiness many a heartfelt prayer 
had been offered up. Ah, 'tis ever thus, — punishment never 
falls upon the guilty as it does on the innocent heart, and these 
two innocent hearts that erstwhile had been so happy in their 
dream of love were destined to cruel awakening. If the eye 
of love is blind, certainly the ear of love is deaf to all sound 
but the music of the loved one's voice. 

Neither Lupe nor her betrothed had given any concern to 
the events taking place about them. 

Engrossed with their own happiness, they had wandered 
here and there in quest of pleasure, now on some historic hunt 
intent, now on some happy errand bent. 

Thus time flew by, until that fatal day when the sad truth 
revealed itself in letters of flame across the boundary of their 
sight. With horrid power it stared them in the face, shutting 
out with one fell sweep all the sunshine of their lives and tear- 
ing to shreds the bands of love that linked their trusting hearts. 

Gone was the dream in which those hearts had reveled. 
Awake now, wide awake was the saddened Lupe, never 
again to dream or even to close her eyes to the bitter realities 
of life. Prostrate for hours, she wept and prayed before her 
dear Madonna: "Spare me this cup, dear mother; tell mc 
what to do." It were so cruel to punish him, the innocent 
one, her loved one, for the sins of his father. And yet, to wed 
that father's son! Perish the wicked thought! It made her 
weep again and moan, and long for death, — for death and her 
dear mother. 

Constant grief wears away the strongest frame, just as the 
constant dripping of water wears away the rock, and the 

47 



despairing agony which now entered Lupe's heart made itself 
visible in the girl's fragile form, the faltering step, the quiver- 
ing voice, the drooping head, the tearful eye. 

In vain the kind padres and loving sisters counseled wis- 
dom, moderation and the avoidance of all hasty decisions. The 
keenest sorrow had fallen upon her, for hers had been no idle 
fancy, but a pure and holy love, emanating from heaven above. 
All she now craved was solitude, — to be alone with her grief 
and her dear Madonna. 

Ah, these were sad days for poor Madrona, the devoted 
nurse, who feared to wander away from her dear child even for 
a little while. 

"The dear child will need me. Grief will exhaust her; then 
I must be near," she said. 

And so she lingered at the outer door, when Lupe entered 
that little room to hold "communion sweet," she said, "with 
the dear, dear mother." One day (it was the fifth since that 
on which the torturing shadows had crept in around her life 
and the hand of a cruel fate had thrust her out of the sunlight 
of joy and love into the darkest night) Madrona, watching 
quietly, saw Lupe, wandering from room to room like a spirit of 
despair, enter the little room. 

Her step scarce had its wonted tread; more slowly did she 
glide along, and more anxiously did Madrona watch her fade 
from sight, lingering long upon the threshold, waiting to hear 
the dear voice call to her for aid and comfort. 

She could almost count the prayers dear Lupe whispered 
there. Ah, Sancta Maria, not thus had Lupe prayed the day 
48 



Senor Francis liad told her of his love. And now Madrona 
wept silently and crossed herself, as she patiently prayed and 
waited there for the summons that never came. Evening 
drew near, and still no message issued from the quiet chamber. 
Could it be that, praying there, the child had fallen into a 
restful sleep? Madrona would peep in so quietly Lupe 
should never know that any one had ventured to intrude. 
Carefully pushing back the door, fearing she knew not what, 
Madrona entered — entered the chamber of death. 

There, beside her bed, with arms resting on its edge, her 
hands tightly clasped in seeming supplication, knelt Lupe. 
The sad, wide-opened, sightless orbs stared out into the deep 
"beyond,"— out into the measureless infinitude of space— over 
the dear Madonna's face, on which they still seemed riveted. 
For Lupe had truly fallen asleep— asleep in the arms of her 
mother. 

Gone was the doubt, the grief, the pain, that had entered 
that poor, young life. The love for which her young heart 
hungered was hers, now, forever. 

For God is love; and Lupe's soul, in all its purity, clothed 
in the garb of innocence and faith, had flown to the God who 
had made and preserved it pure. The doctors pronounced her 
death the result of "heart-failure," superinduced by too great 
excitement, and censured the ignorant toleration that had per- 
mitted the young girl to fast and pray so long and earnestly, 
thus courting death, they said. But only Lupe knew the joy 
that had come to her that day, when upon her knees her soul 
had soared away; only Lupe had heard the music that whis- 
49 



pered in her ear, "Come, my child, thy task is done!" and only 
Lupe had felt the pressure of those loving arms that lifted her 
up, and bore her away forever. At rest now! 

The sisters smiled even while they wept; for God was 
good — and the "dear mother" had saved the child of her heart. 

And Sehor Francis — what became of him, you ask? 

For days he hovered on the borderland; — hovered 'twixt 
life and death. But a strong constitution, most careful nurs- 
ing, and the will of God (that had planned for him a future 
on this earth) saved his young life. When restored to health, 
he served a novitiate, and at his most earnest request was per- 
mitted to take holy orders. Stricken to the heart by the story 
of his father's crime and the tragic death of his dear Lupe, life 
contained nothing that could bring consolation to his buried 
hopes but this, — the strictest observance of his dear religion 
and its unceasing labors of love. His life was devoted to his 
sacred calling. In foreign countries he found extensive fields 
in which to labor for truth's sake. The sick and needy wel- 
comed his coming with joy and gladness; the wronged and 
oppressed lost half their sorrow in telling him their woes, and 
death ceased to be so terrible when Brother Francis painted 
so vividly the beauty and glory, surpassing all human thought, 
of that eternal resting place, where God is love and sorrow is 
unknown. His life w^as spent in teaching truth, and in labor- 
ing for the salvation of men's souls. And when at last his 
mission was completed, when God called that faithful soul to his 
eternal home, it may be that then the fiat of eternal justice had 
been reached and that he had expiated his father's sin. 
50 












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